


Routine

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [51]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexuality, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Protective John Watson, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, can be platonic or romantic you decide, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Sherlock calculates the risks for every action he takes to solve a case. The benefits of allowing himself to be taken far outweigh the risk of letting another person get captured.It works. Of course it does. They catch the bad guys, Sherlock's in the hands of the ambulance that arrives. It's not the first time they've done something like this, and he expects this time will be no different.Then John shows up and it's not normal.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [51]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 6
Kudos: 280





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Smallbunny for the request!!! I really enjoyed writing this so I hope you like it!
> 
> if you guys want things leave em in the comments or shoot me a message on tumblr I'll get to it I promise

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Prompt: Can you please write one with Sherlock’s ribs getting all bruised and battered and John taking him upstairs and carefully examining him with a focused expression on his thin lips? I would love hurt Sherlock like this hurt John 😄🙏🏻 — Smallbunny

* * *

“Why do they keep putting this blanket on me,” Sherlock asks as Lestrade walks up to him. The DI just sighs, perfectly aware that, unlike most kidnapping victims, this one did not instinctively reach out for human reassurance after the rescue. Well, at least not in the same way.

“It’s protocol, Sherlock,” he says instead, “they’re just doing their job.”

Sherlock hums, eyes still raking over the suspects being carted away into police cars. “They were sloppy. Took you long enough to get here.”

“Yeah, well.” Lestrade looks over his shoulder. “Next time maybe give us a bit more of a heads-up before you decide to use yourself as bait.”

“There wasn’t much time,” Sherlock says, “they would’ve picked someone else.”

He knows by the slump of Lestrade’s shoulders that the DI can’t argue with that. He makes to stand up when his head drowns in static and he blinks. He’s back on the bed of the ambulance with Lestrade’s arms steadying him.

“Easy,” the other man mutters, “you _did_ just go through a pretty violent interrogation.”

Sherlock huffs. He knows violent interrogations and this wasn’t one of them. They hadn’t even removed his clothes.

Lestrade’s still watching him, concern etched into every crease in his brow. The DI looks as if he’s about to say something when he abruptly decides against it.

“John’s on his way,” he says instead, “he’s finishing up with the others.”

Ah. Yes. That.

John knew before anyone else that Sherlock had offered himself up as bait, he’d gamble on it. Which meant John would’ve given Lestrade the lead to find Sherlock while he went and took care of the other victims.

There were three others, each a possible target. In all likelihood, most of the kidnappers would’ve stayed with Sherlock. John easily could’ve taken the others without much difficulty.

Sure enough, a few moments later, Lestrade pulls away to show a slightly out of breath John on his way across the crime scene. Sherlock’s eyes rake over his form.

No visible injuries. Signs of mild exertion. No tremor in his hand. John’s fine. Then he looks up at his face and for the first time that day, something tightens just under his chin.

John’s angry.

They have a routine, at this point, of what to do if they find the other in the bed of an ambulance. The one in the ambulance will make some sort of joke about being in shock, or some such nonsense, the other one will ask if they want dinner. Given it’s how they spent their first night together, it’s become a habit. A way to reassure themselves that they’re alright.

Now, though, the tight-lipped expression and barely concealed rage in front of him make Sherlock’s mouth run dry.

He’s not afraid of John.

John’s eyes flick over him and he’s sure John can read whatever’s just happened to him. As he watches, John makes eye contact with him for a moment before looking at the technician somewhere over his shoulder.   
  
“How bad?”

“Few bruised ribs. Nothing too serious. He’ll probably be a bit winded for the next few days.”

John nods sharply, thanking Lestrade for everything he’s done.

“You just get yourselves home safe,” Lestrade says, waving off the thanks, “I’ll come out tomorrow, take your statements.”

“Ta.” John reaches for Sherlock, who tries to stand to meet him only to falter again. “Easy. Take it slow.”

“I know,” Sherlock mutters under his breath, letting John’s arms replace Lestrade’s and helping him up.

They make their way slowly to the street. John calls a cab and ushers Sherlock into the back. His voice stays clipped when he asks the driver to take them to Baker Street. He stares resolutely out the window until Sherlock inhales sharply. Then his eyes stay focused on the patches of bruising he knows is forming under Sherlock’s shirt.

Getting out of the cab is so much more difficult than getting in, the change in angle putting more pressure on his ribs. John’s steady hands walk him to their flat, letting him rest most of his weight on his doctor as they make the slow climb up the stairs. Once they open the door, he moves to sit on the couch, halted by a firm grip on his elbows.

“Bedroom,” John orders, “come on.”

“John, I—“

“The back of the couch will get in my way.” There’s an undercurrent of steel to John’s tone that makes Sherlock relax and tense at the same time.

_I’m here,_ it says, _and I’m pissed off as hell._

Sherlock doesn’t protest anymore, letting John sit him down on the edge of the bed and leave for the first aid kit with strict instructions not to move. He listens, reassuring himself by mapping out John’s movement through the flat via his muffled footsteps. He’s safe now.

John reappears, setting the kit on the bed next to him and reaching to start undoing Sherlock’s coat, stopping every time he gets to a new layer, making sure he gets a nod from Sherlock before he does.

Peeling off the layers doesn’t take long, and soon Sherlock flinches—and then winces at the movement jostling his ribs—when the cool air of the flat hits his abdomen.

John’s jaw tightens. His eyes rove methodically over Sherlock’s torso, cataloging each injury and determining what course of action to take. The way his fingers on his right hand twitch has Sherlock reaching for him.

“It’s not that—“

“Don’t.”

Sherlock’s hand freezes. John won’t even look at him. He retreats, bundling his hands together in his lap and waiting. John reaches for the kit, pulling on a pair of gloves and a bottle of ointment. His hands, adept at performing this type of procedure in all sorts of conditions, move in slow, sure strokes to cover the worst of the bruises. The anger is still there, buried behind the focused expression, evident in the thin line of John’s mouth. He finishes with the cream and snaps the gloves off, the sound of the latex ringing in the still room.

“You’re angry,” Sherlock murmurs as John discards the gloves.

“Yes.”

It takes all Sherlock has not to flinch again, knowing the pressure it’ll put on his ribs. He watches John produce a roll of gauze and start to unroll it.

“…why?”

John stills, looking up at Sherlock. He isn’t frowning. His face is carefully blank.

At least he isn’t smiling.

“Sherlock,” he says, his voice dangerously soft, “look in the mirror.”

Obediently, Sherlock turns his head, looking into the mirror on the door of his wardrobe. He sees the room, he sees the bed, he sees John crouched at the foot.

He sees the mottled purple and black bruises carpeting his torso. He sees the little spots of yellow and green on the tiny patches of skin not covered by the other bruises. He sees his split lip. He sees a scarlet streak along his left ribcage, left from the leader’s ring when he’d pointed out how _obvious_ they were.

“They put their hands on you, Sherlock,” John says in that dangerous voice, “and I wasn’t there to stop it.”

Sherlock’s eye tear themselves away from his reflection to look back at John. There’s a softness to his look now, something warm in the steel. His hand settles on Sherlock’s knee, warmth seeping through the fabric of his trousers.

“And now you’re safe,” he continues, drawing little patterns with his index finger, “and they are in custody.”

“So,” Sherlock says, trying to speak around his dry throat, “you’re not still angry?”

“No, I’m furious,” John murmurs, “at the men who did this to you.”

He frowns a little when Sherlock can’t stop the relieved sigh escaping from his lips. John reaches up slowly, gently tracing Sherlock’s split lip.

“You ridiculous man,” he says, “did you think I was angry at you?”

Sherlock nods, even though it seems silly now. John may be frustrated with him but he’s never gotten truly angry.

“I’m not thrilled with the way you decided to go about it—“ Sherlock snorts— “but you did it. We’re safe, they’re in custody. It’s all fine.”

“It’s not all fine,” Sherlock murmurs, smiling a little to ease the worry that rises to John’s face, “I’m in shock.”

It takes a few seconds for John to catch on, a smile spreading over his face. Sherlock grins, reaching down to worry the ends of the comforter between his fingers. “Look, I’ve got a blanket.”

John laughs, warm against Sherlock. He wraps the gauze carefully around Sherlock’s injuries, checking his work with tender touches. Sherlock can read the relief in each of his movements. As he stands, up, he catches Sherlock’s chin with his hand, turning it a little to examine his lip before smiling again.

“Dinner?”

“Starving.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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